Stroked.

This is one of my favorite Corey Stories. I wanted to get it captured here in my blog before I forget it permanently.

This story happened in roughly 2003, in Chicago, at a busy intersection, right in front of our neighborhood grocery store...

It was a hot summer day and we had a vanload full of groceries with us. We had the windows rolled down and were listening to some bouncy, summer music. I was riding shotgun in my friend Coreys' van. We were in the number 2 space behind another car, waiting for the light to change. Then, we would drive approximately ten feet forward and turn off of that road, headed home. So, not far to go, to get out of a very busy Chicago street and rivers of traffic. Just ten feet.

Corey is famous for his temper and the ease with which is slides from verbal banter to a full-on fist punch to the rib cage. (I swear one of these days, a solid punch from him is actually going to stop my heart, cold.) His favorite hero is The Hulk. And with good reason, Corey likes to smash stuff, on occasion. All in controlled surroundings, of course. But he's the best, if you need something smashed up for you.

The light changed and the old, white car ahead of us did nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The moment when it should've started driving forward, came and passed and now it was very clear that no one in our line was going to be going forward. Corey, being the quick-minded driver that he is, immediately laid on the horn, yelling, "COME ON, MAN! DRIVE!" and then laid a little extra carhorn on top of that, for good measure.

Still the white car didn't move. In his frustration Corey looked at me helplessly, for a little validation. But I was feeling good and disinterested in yelling at stupid drivers, so I decided to make a little joke out of.

"Hey man, " I say, "What if that's some old guy up there who's having some sort of stroke. And the last thing that he hears before he dies, is YOU laying on that horn?" and chuckle a little bit at the morbid thought.

"Oh, I'll show him! I'll stroke him right up his ass!" barked Corey.

We both sat there in the quiet van, as we both repeated the phrase, "I'll stroke him right up his ass" over and over again, in our heads. It sounded like an threat, but had another wierd element to it, that niether of us could place. Finally, it hit me...

"Dude, that sounded a little gay. You're going to "stroke him up his ass? Really?"

Without batting an eye, Corey focused ahead and quietly admitted, "Yeah, dude. I know it was." All of his anger faded away by his own unintentional homosexual faux pas.

The white car finally pulled forward and we drove home, quietly whispering "I'll stroke him right up his ass" under our breadth and laughing each time we said it.

Cheers, Corey!
Mr. B